


The Prince

by Nighthaunting



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Past Lives, Assassination Plot(s), Evil Plans, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Medical Experimentation, Mind Manipulation, Motive Decay, Past Character Death, Politics, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovered Memories, Voltron Kink Meme Fill, bad people in love doing bad things for love, bear with me on this one guys im trying, haggar and zarkon are lotor's parents, the shiro-is-lotor au no one asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 05:50:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9705929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nighthaunting/pseuds/Nighthaunting
Summary: 10,000 years ago, Prince Lotor died and it changed the course of the universe.Now, the chance for him to return drives Emperor Zarkon and Druid Haggar to risk everything--even the Empire itself--to have their son back.





	1. Discovery

**Author's Note:**

> i dont know what im doing but this is getting written, somewhat inspired by a prompt on the voltron kink meme and this amazing art: 
> 
> http://seasaltpepper.tumblr.com/post/156518916958/yes-i-want-shiro-to-be-lotor-the-way-they-cut

It had been a whisper that had send scouting ships to Earth. Haggar’s power had spread across the universe with Zarkon’s, each Druid stationed at a far-flung planet or shipping hub acting as a tuning fork for her psychic quest. 

It was still a shock, however, to sense a fragile thread of spirit and quintessence that could only belong to one person in the entire universe leading to such a backwater planetary system. It was even more of a shock to be sitting alongside Zarkon in the shadowed Imperial box in the stands of the arena and sense the being on the other end of that thread be thrust out to do battle.

Haggar could sense Zarkon tense beside her, leaning forward slightly with his fists clenched on his knees to study the alien vessel that precious thread emanated from. With all eyes turned to the battle between Myzax and the nameless alien, Haggar broke her composure for just a moment, reaching out and laying a hand over the back of one of Zarkon’s clenched fists.

“It is him,” Haggar whispered, “It is truly his spirit.”

Zarkon was motionless, save for the hand Haggar was touching, which uncurled from a fist and instead twined fingers with Haggar’s, thumb stroking gently along her knuckles in a sign that he had heard, that he knew as well, even as he appeared unmoved. 

“He will triumph,” Zarkon said, softly in response, “or die.”

Haggar’s shoulders tensed, but she knew the law of the arena; and more, knew the toll millennia of waiting had done to Zarkon’s hopes of ever--

There was a roaring cheer as the alien--a short thing, Haggar judged, not much taller than herself, perhaps--dodged Myzax’ weapon and managed a strike in return, Zarkon’s hand clutched hers, tightly, even though to a casual glance he looked as though he might have been graven from stone, and Haggar held just as tightly in return.

It was foolish perhaps, she knew, but they both watched the match intently each searching for any similarities between the alien the spirit was now embodied in, and the dearly loved being that spirit had belonged to long ago. When the alien struck down Myzax and was declared the Champion. 

Haggar felt her own relief, and twinned with it, the echoes of Zarkon’s own through the countless bonds of will and magic and quintessence that had been firmed and reaffirmed across their lifetimes together.

As the Champion was herded out of the arena by the slave handlers and the crowd became restless as it waited for the next match, Haggar shifted her hand in Zarkon’s--both of them aware that eyes would soon turn to the Emperor’s reaction to the match--he gently squeezed her hand once again, before releasing it and standing from his throne. A formless sound went through the spectators as Zarkon raised a hand--a greeting, a salute, and a benediction all in one--before turning and sweeping from the box.

Haggar followed, not bothering to stand, merely twisting magic around herself to disappear into the shadows and reappear in the private antechamber where Zarkon stood waiting.

“It is him,” Zarkon said, finally accepting what they had both felt in the arena. The words were nearly pained, the deep emotion carried in his voice nearly choking.

Haggar knew, all those ages ago, that when she had woven the spells she did--done what was right and necessary to try to salvage some of the most precious thing the war had stolen from them--the hope would carry herself and Zarkon on, but that it would also keep their grief fresh for however long it took for the magic to work. She stepped forward, and Zarkon opened his arms, letting her encircle his waist and cupping the back of her head as she leaned forward against his breastplate.

“It is him,” Zarkon said again, as they clung to each other, “out son, Lotor.” 


	2. Assassination

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if shiro is lotor, it seems pretty logical that lotor would have been like shiro, y/y?

It was a perfect summer’s day on Altea, the nearly overpowering scent of juniberries drifting through the streets of the capitol on a gentle breeze. Prince Lotor of Galra strode through the ornamental gardens surrounding the palace, nodding in greeting as he passed attendants and courtiers. The prince was not an unusual sight on the palace grounds, and the guards stood aside as he made his way.

Accompanied by a single bodyguards, Lotor followed the path leading to the Hall of Councils. He was a proud son of Zarkon; tall and well-built, with obvious muscle from the traditional warrior’s training undertaken by all Galra. Lotor had not inherited his father’s armoured crest, but instead had a thick mane of hair that hung past his shoulders--most of it a deep purple, aside from the distinctive shock of white running through it--held back from his face in a hastily-tied knot. The points of his ears looked almost Altean, but the dusky lavender of his skin and piercing yellow eyes evidenced his true heritage.

In many cases, the Prince of the Galra was considered more preferable to his father, the King. Lotor’s honed brilliance as a warrior and diplomat, as well as his natural air of authority and charisma were renowned throughout Galra, Altea, and all the worlds of the Universal Alliance. However rumours also followed in the Prince’s wake.

There was no Queen of the Galra, and few found it easy to imagine a being who would have caught fearsome King Zarkon’s eye as a mate. The Galra being understood as quite serious in such matters by their allies. That King Alfor’s friendship with Zarkon was so strong, and that both rulers had children of about the same age only fueled further rumours that a betrothal could soon be expected between the Princess of Altea and the Prince of the Galra: thus binding the two most powerful worlds of the Universal Alliance together even more closely.

The unfortunate truth of the Universal Alliance was that--although many worlds had come together to assist each other in maintaining peace, safety, and prosperity for their peoples--the worlds of the Alliance were not closely bound to each other by any world other than Altea itself. The world of scientists and diplomats was the peaceful lynchpin to the entire Alliance, and the thought of the Galra somehow finding a closer tie to the most vital world in the alliance sat uneasily with many.

Quieter whispers that spoke of the Galra as battle-hungry and bestial; cold and arrogant beings from a strange and unsociable race. Unsavory attitudes creating tensions that ran beneath the surface of the Universal Alliance, as worlds had fleeting contact with each other outside of their work with the Alteans and saw fit to remain aloof beyond that. It was spoken of as well, as something that was ‘known’, that the Galra considered most of their fellow beings in the Universal Alliance to be too soft; frivolous and arrogant in their own ways, but less tolerable from their lack of self-awareness about it.

The tensions had come to a head when an indiscreet politician had leaked the news that King Alfor was considering his daughter’s marriage prospects; Lotor’s name not having been mentioned, but soon attached to the rumour with a speculative weight.

It was because of this Prince Lotor was answering an urgent summons from King Alfor and his advisors. The Prince’s concern for the antagonism that had seethed through the Alliance as rumours grew and spread--several other planetary rulers within the Alliance having made increasingly elaborate and desperate suits, and the political tensions arising from their competition--carried him into the Hall of Councils, past the guards stationed at the entry, and into the long hallway leading to the Council Chamber itself.

As much as anger stirred Lotor’s blood--on behalf of his people, himself, and his dear friend Princess Allura--he hoped that a statement of some kind could be made to defuse the situation. Although the King’s summons had said nothing of whether the rumours of betrothal were true--merely that his presence was required on Altea immediately as Galra’s ambassador to the Universal Alliance--Lotor hoped that they were mistaken and King Alfor had not decided to accept suits for Allura’s hand. Setting the rumours straight and easing the tensions that had taken the Alliance by having no betrothal at all seemed the best way to end the situation, while also allowing Allura to have the say in who she married that Lotor had somehow always expected King Alfor would grant her.

In his haste and preoccupation with his thoughts, it did not strike Lotor as strange that the usual guards were not stationed at the doors to the Council Chamber; merely hoping that he was a few ticks early and would have time to compose himself before the meeting.

But the chamber was not empty as Lotor had expected. A group of several beings--strangers to Lotor, although all recognizable as belonging to various worlds of the Universal Alliance and wearing the uniforms and badges of minor diplomats or courtiers from those worlds--stood in a loose group at the center of the chamber, and as soon as the doors had slid shut behind Lotor’s bodyguard, they turned as one towards the Prince and fired the blasters they had been holding concealed.

A lucky shot took Lotor’s bodyguard in the throat, while Lotor himself stumbled to his knees as the plasma bolts struck him; deep maroon blood already seeping from his wounds as his mind struggled to process the shock and sudden pain.

“Why--” Lotor managed to gasp, tasting blood in his mouth.

As soon as the Prince had fallen, the assassins began to disperse, quickly concealing their weapons and leaving the chamber through side doors until only one remained; an Altean man Lotor hazily thought he recognized as a minor politician. Obviously some sort of ringleader, the Altean was holding a blaster that bore the marks of the Royal Altean Armoury.

“Your death,” the Altean said, stepping forward and aiming the blaster at Lotor once again, “Will drive your father to reveal exactly what he is, and then the Galra will be crushed, and driven from the Alliance.”

Before Lotor could muster any reply, the Altean fired, striking Lotor hard in the chest and sending him sprawling across the bloody floor. Distantly, as his vision went grey around the edges and began to fade, Lotor imagined he could he his mother and father’s voices both calling his name, and along with them, nearly drowning them out, a lion’s roar.

The last thing he saw was the Altean placing his stolen blaster on the ground and then slipping through a side exit, just as the chamber’s main door slid open to admit King Alfor and his advisers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and this seemed like a pretty legit way for things to have gone? and yeah lotor was Fine okay


	3. Memory

Shiro jerked awake on the hard cot in his cell, and for a moment all he could feel was a burning pain in his chest. There was no source he could think of to explain it, although he spared a few suspicious glances for the cybernetic prosthetic the Druids had ‘gifted’ him when his right arm had been mangled in the arena. 

The dream that had awakened him stayed with him for a moment-- _ a sense of a desperate need to warn his father of the assassin’s conspiracy, that Galra was in danger _ \--but it soon faded from his mind, slipping into subconscious thought as he awakened fully. 

He had no idea how long he’d been a prisoner of the Galra. His matches, the only regular occurrence he could track, were arranged in no way he could fathom a measure of time from. Shiro hoped--although perhaps vainly, considering the wound he’d given Matt the last time he’d seen him--that both Holts were managing better than he was. 

Within a few days of his first match in the arena, Shiro had been introduced to the ‘care’ of the Druids, the leader of whom had apparently taken an interest in him. Now, between the time in the arena fighting for his life, and the time with Haggar--which mercifully  he could remember very little of, aside from waking shackled to an examination table--Shiro had begun to dream. 

He could never fully remember the dreams past waking, but was left feeling a deep sense of familiarity and urgency as the threads of memory dissolved in his grasp. This latest dream was no exception. The Galra were hardly in any danger, and Shiro knew his father had been dead for years; there was nothing to warn him of. 

It was discomfiting, and Shiro had slowly gained a sense that some spectre was looming over him. The expectant looks Haggar gave him whenever he was in her presence, as though at some point whatever experiment she was performing on him would take hold.

When he fought the feeling somehow became even more prominent. Shiro knew he’d been

trained in various forms of combat since he was a cadet at the Galaxy Garrison, but there were subtle differences in his skills that not even being thrown into life-or-death gladiatorial combat could account for. 

It was frighteningly easy, as well, to fall into the rhythms of the arena. Life on the Galra ship he was being held on seemed familiar, somehow, as he was led through the darkened corridors and watched the sentries and Galra officers go about their business. The sense of  déjà vu that overtook him at the oddest moments was as inexplicable as it was compelling. 

At the Garrison, no matter how well he’d performed--and some drive to reach the stars that had lived in Shiro since he was a child ensured that he’d performed to his utmost ability--Shiro had felt like something of an outsider. Not merely because he was an orphan, but because on some fundamental level he failed to connect with his peers. It was easy enough to be kind and well-liked, and it made Shiro proud in some indefinable way to give help and encouragement to his-- _ his people _ \--fellow cadets, and later the new cadets in training. To lead them and set an example. 

But where he felt the excitement and challenge of a nearly impossible simulator mission or tough sparring partner like a fire in his blood, his fellow cadets--and later, fellow officers--just shook their heads and joked about adrenaline junkies and pushing the envelope. 

_ Don’t you have a sense of what ‘enough’ means, Shirogane? _ He’d been asked, time and again. Always managing to laugh along and take it in stride, but never quite able to explain--to others, or himself--what drove him to such lengths. 

Keith had been the one exception, and although Shiro would rather die than see Keith in Galra hands he still missed him terribly. Keith understood, and they shared the same drive to push beyond. The thrill of a challenge. The natural will to fight for what they wanted. 

Shiro wondered sometimes, alone in his more cynical thoughts and darker humor, if it was because he and Keith were both orphans; something in them driving them harder to prove themselves. He’d never asked Keith his opinion on that--somewhat because something in him told Shiro he was wrong, and partly because Keith would take the morose thought as a challenge and they’d end up encouraging each other to some truly black depths of humor--and he regretted it, almost. A lost conversation with Keith. A lost chance to know if he was alone in his thoughts. A lost chance to be anywhere but here, if only in his memories.

Stuck in a cell on a Galra warship somewhere in the vastness of the universe, waiting for the guards to come and take him back to the arena or Haggar’s lab.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poor shiro, it gets...betterish?


	4. The Reach

Zarkon stood a respectable distance from Haggar’s delicate equipment as he studied the body suspended in the heavily modified healing pod.

The human--the Champion, rightfully--appeared peaceful aside from the occasional flicker of his eyelids or tremor that ran through his limbs. The assortment of tubes and wires connecting the human to the monitoring equipment and breathing mask trailed around his form like gossamer threads. It was difficult to look at the human and know that Lotor’s spirit lived within. Zarkon was aware the human had a name, but refused to acknowledge it; superstitious, perhaps, but something that was somehow necessary now that they were at last in the final stages of reawakening. 

“If your efforts are proceeding as planned,” Zarkon asked Haggar, circumspect because of the presence of her attendant Druids, “why leave the human in the arena and interrupt your work?”

Haggar didn’t turn from the console she was hunched over, painstakingly targeting and modifying the human’s genetic sequence, occasional bursts of magic being discharged through the instrument and flowing through the wires and electromagnetic leads attached to the human’s body. Through their bond, Zarkon could feel the sharp and focused edge of her concentration as she bent her will to her work; the momentary brush of awareness of his question, both spoken and unspoken. 

“It helps maintain the necessary mental state to induce the desired changes, my lord,” Haggar answered, distractedly. 

There was no need to say more. Zarkon trusted in Haggar’s knowledge and ability.

It was difficult, now, to finally see fruits to their labors. Both he and Haggar had quietly rejoiced when the human had advanced with victory after victory to champion the games, but it added an additional sense of urgency to their work. The human developing Lotor’s unmistakeable white forelock was cause for more hope than Zarkon had felt since the Black Lion, Haggar, and his own spiritual connection had cried out as one that the blood of their blood had been spilled.

To arrive to find Alfor cradling his dying son in his arms had frozen Zarkon to the core. The blaster obviously stolen from the Royal armoury and the manipulations that had gone into luring Lotor to the place of his death had been one shard of ice after another driven into Zarkon’s heart. The cold clarity that had enveloped him, intertwined with the Black Lion’s fury at their betrayal-- _ our cub, dead _ \--had decided Zarkon’s course before he even needed to think of it. Taking Lotor’s body to where Haggar waited and bearing silent witness as she cast the spells she swore would bring their son back to them someday--reborn somewhere in the universe, if only they had the strength to find him--binding them even more unbreakably than the mystical bonds they’d forged when they’d chosen each other as mates against all odds. 

It was enraging to find the petty conspiracy that had taken his son from him. Zarkon felt the fire of it nearly overwhelm the ice that had flowed in his veins since Lotor’s death. He and Haggar both raw and aching with grief neither could allow to heal when the thought--the hope, the  _ promise _ \--that Lotor would be returned to them one day had hung over them. A plot to drive the Galra from the Universal Alliance had started this. Somewhere in the universe their son would be reborn.

In the end it was simple, to decide that no matter how long it took or what world Lotor was reborn on they would be ready. Satisfying almost, to crush the Alliance that had so vastly underestimated the might of Galra.

Losing the Black Lion was an abiding ache, but Zarkon felt so many aches in his heart. The constant reminder of Lotor as the Empire was built; the moments when Haggar had felt the slightest whisper of Lotor’s spirit abroad in the universe and the feel of her heartbreak when it only lead them onward to conquest after conquest in a path Zarkon now realized had been leading them slowly towards Earth, and the accompanying ache as centuries turned to millennia. Now, having nearly mastered the universe in their search, they were so close.

Haggar motioned for her assistants, and retrieved a syringe filled with pure quintessence from the tray they brought her, before injecting it into a port on one of the tubes connected to the human.

“You are all dismissed for now,” Haggar said briskly as she set the empty syringe back on the tray, “tell Ulaz that the orderlies will need to be especially careful.”

When the Druids had filed from the room, Zarkon stepped forward to stand beside Haggar in front of the pod. 

“By all accounts,” Haggar said wistfully, reaching out to press and hand against the reinforced glass, “he is just as Lotor was.”

Zarkon pressed a hand to the small of Haggar’s back, a silent affirmation of his presence. His support. Haggar glanced at him from under her hood.

“He is as Lotor will be again,” Zarkon said decisively, shifting his hand from Haggar’s back to clasp her free hand in his, and reaching out to put a hand to the tank as well. 

Together, as one, Zarkon and Haggar reached out with their combined might--psychic and magical alike--to catch the threads tying Lotor’s spirit to this body and draw him back to life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the lowkey Mood of this chapter is 'soft Zarkon/Haggar affection'
> 
> they're evil but they're happy at least??


End file.
